#That is if I finish my other wips first
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Cablepool fic idea where wade miraculously develops a conscience(?) after nate's death but it turns out he's actually just being haunted by nate's ghost who keeps giving him a dissapointed look every time he does something bad
#Look I'm still salty nate didn't actually stay dead in c&dp#Just tossing this into the void#Maybe might possibly write it#That is if I finish my other wips first#Cablepool
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đ
#omniscient reader's viewpoint#orv#han sooyoung#yoo sangah#sangsoo#AGHHHH FINALLY FINISHED A WIP [tearing my shirt off]#was this an excuse to draw more ysa? yes. Also.yuri#lesbian oomf in progress commentary on this was: 1 giving detailed input on what color ysas manicure should be#and 2 others requesting she have 2 nails be short next time LOLL#âhow does she have a manicure in the apocalypseâ by being a cuntress#school has been beating my ass creatively but i need#Todraw more orv BADLY!!!!!#im always itching to draw kdj in particular but i wanna draw more girlies first bc ive been rlly wanting to#heres hoping i can have solid ideas <o>__<o>#oh side note theres 2 easter eggs in here btw LOL. not necessarily orv related easter eggs just sillies
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shadowzel collab with @a-drama-addict !!!!! I LOVE SHADOWZEL UGH
#bg3#shadowheart#laeâzel#shadowzel#shadowheart x laeâzel#laeâzel of crèche kâliir#digital art#artists on tumblr#my art bloopy#others art bloopy#baldur's gate 3#dnd#dnd5e#fanart#now back to work on my ten million wips#my tav will be getting A THIRD ref sheet#i had fun doing this thank you oomf for finishing your part first i didnât know how to do it#lesbian#sapphic
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IT IS DONE
Fanart of Chapter 25 of The Neon Void by @sugarpasteltmnt
Fanart done to the lyrics of The Other Side Of Paradise
THIS TOOK SO LONG OH MY GOD
I first got the idea for this some time after chapter 25 but then I got burned out and then I got distracted by artfight and then I got distracted by an AU Iâm making BUT NOW ITâS DONE
YIPPEE
#this is probably one of the last art I ever do on ibis paint#unless I find some other WIPs that I wanna finish#BECAUSE I FINALLY GOT PROCREATE#I FINALLY HAVE IT#posting this while listening to the other side of paradise is insane actually#AND ALSO MY INTERNET REBELLED WHILE I WAS TRYING TO POST THIS FOR THE FIRST TIME#AND I DONT REMEMBER MOST OF THE THINGS I SAID#This is not meant to be a final fanart or a special thank you piece#because I have many more ideas for this thing#and maybe some day I will make a special thank you art for TNV#but I am not sure at all#ill just keep making art and I have a feeling my first ever animatic will be for this fic#Also I kept forgetting Leo has pants and a tail#so if it looks weird it because they were added in the last minute#ahem#the neon void#TNV#tnv fanart#tnv spoilers#tnv final chapters spoilers#rottmnt leonardo#rottmnt leo#rottmnt#save rottmnt#save rise of the tmnt#unpause rottmnt#tmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#Spotify
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summer 𼾠đŤ
#rc9gn#first ninja#rc9gn first ninja#sorry for zero activity. summer is kicking my ass (healthwise) & any of my creative energy is channelled in finishing Dress to Impress đ#cant finish any of my other wips properly and can only make shitty doodles#and besides that i only have energy to lie around and imagine ninja and chase kissing lol#projecting my attitude to summer on first because i can
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Little sketch of vincent bc I was listening to shellshock by new order and he kicked his way back into my brain so hard I almost had an aneurysm
#vinicius my beloved <3#my favorite little depresso vampire and his unhinged feral gf iloveyouguyssomuch#I'm suddenly struck with the need to draw the two again. suppressing it bc I have other wips I wanna finish first#but I'm jdjfksljfnvnfivjenlfkvoflfkgkfmsllsmfmslslkdmd. you know#vtm#vtmb#brujah#oc.vince#sleepyscribble#also. cheri cheri lady. that's also a vincent song now#I can't listen to it anymore without thinking abt him.........#I think it's the voice of the guy in that song. or the line 'I've been lonely too long oh I can't be so strong'#makes him wobble in my brain like a sheet of metal
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Friend: What are you doing right now?
Me: I have a lot of projects.
Friend: Oh so cool, what are those? New job, new business, new home, new relationship?
Me: Ok, I have a lot of SPN/Destiel projects.
#when I tell my friends that I have a lot of things to do#and not enough time to progress as I'd wish#I'm talking about time to do all the spn or destiel projects I want to do#like finishing to publish my first destiel au fic#work on my two other long wip#write the other hundreds of destiel fic ideas I have#draw more#I'd love to draw art that goes with the fics I already posted on AO3 just to set the mood#rewatch the whole show and write meta#read hundreds of fics#watch the cockles panels I'm late for#maybe I forgot some#too many things to do and so little time#I also have to find a new home so yeah here you go#I also have projects that don't involve spn or destiel#but it's a pain in the ass#destiel#deancas#dean winchester#castiel#my destiel fanfic#destiel fanart#spn rewatch#cockles#jenmish#destiel fanfiction#destiel fanfic#destiel fic
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he's the only melee frame i use and i love him
#...you know. other than slamkong#seriously i am exploiting wukong + magistar way too much#the only part umbra wins over him is probably in steel path circuit because he doesn't even need any weapon#anyway ramble time#idk why i drag this for like a whole month after the wip post#(btw that second part was in the wip post. but that's just because i did that first so i can post it then)#i don't have much stuff that i really wanna draw rn so maybe i'll backtrack and finish other wips?#no guarentees because everytime i say something like that i just won't do that in the future for some reason#warframe#warframe excalibur umbra#warframe operator#my art
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I Shall Move Hell
angry self-righteous jedi about to take a trip downhill. In this house we support unhinged women.
process gif under the cut :)
i had to stop this piece for three weeks until i had the courage to stare at armor pics and do studies to make the metal not look like actual shit. Goal accomplishment is questionable but at least is Done.
very proud of the mask tho
#i finally finished this good lord#behold the damnation of my free evenings for the past weeks#i've been staring at this shit for so long idk what to feel anymore#also this is the first revan painting i finished this year??? Absurd! She deserves more#Will I actually finished the other wips I have? No. It's more fun to start other shit and keep the sense of pressure and doom going#anyway ENJOY#kotor#my art#revan#jesra my beloved#darth revan
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Tease Tidbit Tuesday đď¸
Tagged by @diazsdimples & @tizniz. Make sure to check out what they shared today! (and maybe send James a virtual hug or a stupid punny joke? Heâs been sick for 3 weeks and Iâm sure he could use some cheering up đ)
I have been wanting so desperately to write the past few days but a cold has my sinuses putting so much pressure on my head I feel like itâs going to explode, plus itâs school holidays and itâs been raining so Iâve got two very energetic kids with cabin fever running around causing mayhem đ
.
BUT! I did manage to write a little something for LA Lonely so yay (even though it may not be great, at least itâs words)
Pre snippet here
Buck is woken up by the shrill sound of a phone ringing. The bed jostles, Buck letting out an annoyed grumble as the warm body that is wrapped around him disappears. There is a kiss pressed to his naked shoulder, a whispered apology and then the rustling of the blankets as the person leaves the bed, answering the phone with a quiet hello.
Rolling over to check the time, Buckâs surprised to see that itâs almost 9. Usually his body clock wakes him up at 7am everyday, whether he stayed up late or not, so sleep-ins are a rare thing. He rolls onto his back, groaning as he stretches his arms up above his head. Thereâs a slight ache in his ass but itâs a reminder of the fantastic sex he had last night and honestly, Buck doesnât mind the discomfort.
He hears footsteps on the stairs, the wood creaking slightly and then the most attractive man Buck has ever laid eyes on is standing at the foot of his bed wearing nothing but underwear and a soft apologetic smile that has Buckâs tummy swooping.
Eddie.
The manâs name is Eddie, Buck remembers. And remember he should because he was moaning it loud enough last night.
Eddie has a phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he picks up his jeans and begins to awkwardly shimmy them up his legs. âI told you, I overslept. But Iâm getting ready now and can be there in ââ he looks down at his wrist and frowns, his eyes sweeping over the discarded clothes on the floor before zeroing in on Buckâs second nightstand where a clunky watch sits. Eddie grabs the watch, quickly checking the time before he begins strapping it on. âI can be there in 20 minutes, 15 if the traffic is good.â
Buck feels a pang in his chest and then instantly chastises himself. This was just another hookup, a one night stand ânothing more than that. He was foolish to think that what he felt last night with Eddie was anything real. It was just the hormones.
Eddie may have stayed, but that was probably because he was hoping to get lucky again this morning. Or like Buck, he slept in and didnât get a chance to sneak out before Buck woke up.
No pressure tagging: @hippolotamus @puppyboybuckley @spotsandsocks @lover-of-mine @loserdiaz @wikiangela @athenagranted @thewolvesof1998 @exhuastedpigeon @monsterrae1 @wildlife4life @watchyourbuck @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @evanbegins @goforkinard @rainbow-nerdss @theotherbuckley @try-set-me-on-fire @dangerpronebuddie @disasterbuckdiaz @devirnis @donationwayne @shitouttabuck @sunshinediaz @princessfbi @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @fortheloveofbuddie @giddyupbuck @homerforsure @hoodie-buck @honestlydarkprincess @jesuisici33 @king-buckley @captain-hen @bekkachaos @bigfootsmom @ladydorian05 @nmcggg @mellaithwen @missmagooglie and as always, anyone else who wants to share something -> consider this your official tag
#spoiler alert: Eddie would stay if he could but fatherhood calls and well thatâs a call Eddie will always answer#daffi writes#wip: la lonely#Buck is being all self deprecating#but what else is new?#buddie wip#buddie#I really really want to finish Rival Firefighters so I can dive into my other wips#(and also post the first chapter for you guys!)#and Iâm soooo close#but between the pounding head and the energetic munchkins .. I havenât been able to keep the smutty writing beans going#though I have been on a bit of a little fic reading roll atm which is nice đ#having to slow down and rest (more like being forced to by my husband haha) gives me time to go through my MARKED FOR LATER library#okay Iâve probably rambled way too much#hugs to everyone â¤ď¸
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the voices won
#parkour civilization#parkciv#seawatt#parkour champion#paper#sketch#wip#xuh art#god above i will try to finish this digitally some time#seawattgaming#ajthebold#seawatt gaming#ok LISTEN. LISTEN. OK. WHY DOES NO ONE TALK ABOUT THIS SHIP#WHO CARES ABOUT EVBO /J#NO. FOR REAL. THESE TWO'S RELATIONSHIP DICTATES THE WORLD AND NO ONE TALKS ABOUT IT#HOW COME SEAWATT SETS THE RULES BUT AJ HAS THE CHAMPION BOOTS???#WHAT KIND OF DEAL GOES ON BETWEEN THEM#HOW COME SEAWATT RAN AWAY AT THE END OF MOVIE 1 BUT AJ IS NEVER SHOWN AGAIN. WHEN WE KNOW EVBO SURVIVES THE CHAMPION BATTLE DESPITE LOSING#THE FIRST ROUND. IS THIS THHING ON? DOES ANYONE HEAR ME? IS AJ SOMEWHERE IN THE NOOB LEVEL? HE'D RANK UP UP IMMEDIATELLY ONCE EVBO MADE THE#TRIALS POSSIBLE. DUDE WAS THE CHAMPION. WHERE DID HE GOOOOO. HOW WOULD HE FEEL ABOUT SEAWATT'S DEATH. DID THEY EXPLORE EACH OTHERS BODIES W#O SAID THAT#i just have to fuck myself and get attached to the ship that HAS NOTHING. WE NEVER SEE THEM INTERACT BUT WE KNOW THEY MUST. ugh. f#fuck my stupid baka life
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the salt and the skin
Hi! I have been deeply beset by a disease that can only be cured by writing about Imogen Temultâs intensely ingrained mental illnesses. Yeah itâs contagious. Honestly this fic should probably be labeled as some type of biohazard.
Also on Ao3!
The first time Imogen told Laudna about the storm it was, appropriately, storming.
Laudnaâs eyes had been swallowed by a blackness darker than that of the night surrounding them, catching and reflecting even the most minuscule scatterings of light in a way that made her gaze look full with shooting stars. She had taken her leather-shielded hand to hold in both of hers as she listened. It was the first time she could remember someone taking her hand simply to hold.
She said, here is what she knows of the storm: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.
Afterâas they lay for the first time in a shared space, hands locked together in a promise at their sidesâLaudna fell asleep before her, eyes wide open. Imogen had spent minutes watching light shows reflect in them, enchanted utterly. She thought, without really considering the weight of it then: beautiful.
When she finally fell back asleep, she did so with the comfort of knowing she was never out of Laudnaâs lightspun gaze.
âââ
In the time that has passed since that night the same things that have changed about the storm have changed for her and Laudnaâwhich is to say, nothing at all.
(Which is to say, absolutely everything.
In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has become familiar with the difference between the chill that follows Laudnaâs skin and the chill that follows a corpse with her face. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between running from and running to. In the time that has passed since that night Imogen has learned the difference between losing and being left.
Here is what she knows of grief: it is unrelenting, it is violent, it is hers.
It does not escape her that the first time she heard her motherâs voice was in a storm.)
âââ
On the twenty-seventh day of QuenâPillar, as the falling leaves and spines begin to create a shoreline on the bordering forest in a glaze of varying orange and brown shades, Gelvaan celebrates the Hazel Festival.
This, like all other celebrations in Gelvaan, is celebrated with hastily put-up stands and stages and games, the best and biggest cattle and produce hauled in on freshly cleaned wagonsâsome sporting their previously won ribbons as intimidating trophiesâand various flowery dedications to various different gods.
The Hazel Festival, as her father explained it, is a celebration of love and divine intentionâthe concept and promise of soul mates. As the superstition goes, if there exists another half of you, then you would find them here. People would arrive with bouquets of freshly picked flowers, hand-written letters or hand-crafted food, wandering the small stream of Gelvaan townsfolk with the belief that they were about to stumble upon the great love of their life.
It always seemed so silly to her, which means it was something many of the people in that town held very close to their hearts.
Her father told her that they met there. He and her mother. Maybe thatâs why it seemed so silly.
But here, in the dark and with the taste of honesty staining her lips, she has the passing thought that sheâd like to take Laudna one day. Maybe not to the one in Gelvaan; somewhere new, somewhere that feels syrupy sweet and slow and that sticks to your skin like a joyful glaze when it's over. Somewhere that stains. She wants Laudna to have to lick her fingers clean. She wants to bring her a bouquet of flowers.
But, for now, she is in a chasm that might as well be endless telling Laudna things that she deserved to hear in any other way. She should have told her about how she feels about Delilahâs presence in their room, holding her hand, holding her lips to the skin of her throat in a threat and a promise.
She should have told Laudna she loves her at the Hazel Festival.
Instead she says âI love Laudna,â with the same tense hesitance you would feel pulling a trigger and follows it with a âbutâ that bursts from her chest like a bullet that precedes âIâm disgusted at the idea of Delilah looking at us all the time.â that leaves her smoking mouth like an accusation. She watches her careless aim land true in Laudnaâs chest, sees the conflicted hitch and stutter of her breath from even the short distance separating them.
It ricochets; it strikes her, too.
âââ
During the trial of trust, when Laudna says she loves her, Imogenâs response is: âI think youâre a doppelganger right now?â
Which is silly. Theyâll laugh about it later. It also makes her want to die as soon as it leaves her lips.
Because, the thing is, she knows Laudna. She knows Laudna and she would be able to tell if it wasnât Laudna if she had been blinded or deafened or made senseless altogether. Her tether, her anchor. She would know. She should have known.
In the same way she should have known the moment they landed in Wildemount that Laudna was in Issylra. In the same way she should have known the moment she fled that Laudna was in the Parchwood. In the same way she should have known twenty years ago that Laudna was coming to her.
Not that any of it matters. She didnât know. She didnât know that she was in Issylraâthe ParchwoodâThe Hellcatchâin front of her. It feels as close to sacreligious as Imogen has ever truly felt. Heretical. Like she should be punished or brought down altogether. And, really, maybe she should be. The exercise was to trust one another.
What kind of trust was it, to instinctually keep trying to reach into her friendâs minds? To summon a hound to stand between them all as they stood at the very precipice in case? If sheâs honest, she doesnât truthfully feel like any of them deserved to be called victorious.
She wonders, briefly, if the other side is lacking here, too. Ludinus, Otohan. Her mother. Is it trust that binds them? Is it faith?
The brief thought of it, that her mother has found her own version of the Hellsâmaybe her own version of Laudnaâdrives into her chest like a fist.
But none of that compares toâLaudnaâs face, fumbling into disbelief at the accusation; Laudnaâs grasping, empty hands; Laudnaâs nervous, darting eyes. Laudnaâs screams, cutting through the night off the bow of the Silver Sun. Laudnaâs bleeding fingers, dripping black onto shattered, pink stone.
If it was sacrilegious of her to doubt Laudnaâs intention, it is damnation she feels take root in her ribs as a hound aparrates at her side. It bursts forth with a growling howl, its decaying hackles raised, its bright green eyes trained on her, sharp and dutiful. For her to doubt Laudnaâfor her to make Laudna doubt herâ
Well. She supposes itâs fair.
She glances at it, her Cerberus. She says, âHi, baby boy.â
It calms. Across the fountain, face blocked by the angle of her own extended hand, Laudna calms, too. âYes.â Laudna utters, âGood boy.â
She closes her eyes as she, Orym, and Chetney breach the barrier surrounding the fountain and drop their ivory sticks into its grasp. She reaches for Laudnaâs mind one final, unsuccessful time, the plea for her not to lunge dying unheard in the folds of her mind.
(In the moment, as Morri applauds their upward failure of a success, she doesnât register the way her now red-scarred fingers come up to brush against the now-bare skin of her temple. She should have known.
Next time, she will.)
âââ
When Fearne finally makes up her mind and readies herself for taking the shard, Imogenâs eyes are on Laudna and how a line of tension shoots up her spine and draws her shoulders together like folding, skeletal wings. How, as Chetney reaches into the bag of holding, she silently steps away.
Imogen hasnât been wearing her circlet, has lowered herself once again into the rapid waters of her too-open mind for hours now, but she doesnât need to be in Laudnaâs mind to know what is passing through it.
It makes her sick, the thought of that vile woman in Laudnaâs mind or soul or presence. It makes her more sick to think of Laudna spending even a moment around her influence alone.
(When Laudna had come backâwhen they found her, out at the tree line of the Parchwoodâshe had run. She had taken a moment to meet Imogenâs exhausted-elated-terrified eyes and sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran for fear of what she was capable of doing, of who she was capable of hurting, of both her lack of control and abundance of power.
She thinks of Laudna running from her and from her and from herself and, briefly, envisions a storm in the place where once she stood.)
She doesnât really register that she has moved until Laudna is already in her arms.
âYou can put your head in my shoulder. Tilâ itâs over.â She whispers, one hand burying itself in Laudnaâs hair and the other wrapping possessively around her waist, âI can tell you whatâs happening, if you want?â
Laudna doesnât say anything for a long moment, and then, into her neck: âYouâre warm.â
She feels the barely-there press of lips to her carotid and tries valiantly not to let the shiver it sparks pass through her. Instead, she takes the hand in her hair and presses lightly, moves so that every point of their bodies that could be connected are. She says, voice silk-soft, lips brushing a metal-armored cropped ear, âSo are you.â
For a moment it feelsâwell, intimate in a way sheâs slightly embarrassed about displaying in front of the others. Slightly.
But then Laudna is murmuring âshut up, shut up, shut up,â into the skin of her shoulder andâshe canât help itâshe smiles. She giggles. It is pure pride. Her brain in three parts: loving Laudna, hating Delilah, wanting to tell Laudna itâs okay to bite her shoulder to drown out the voice if itâs too loud.
She does not do that, and instead whispers the incantation she has all but ingrained on her tongue from countless back-and-forth trips on too shaky gondolas and grief insurmountableâshe says, in some dead language or a commandâcalm.
She thinks, as the spell leaves her and Laudnaâs tense body melts completelyâas Fearneâs body rises into the air, encompassed in flameâas Chetneyâs grip on the tools he has taken out to hold for comfort, and then on FCGâs raging body, turns white-knuckledâas Ashton flinches and almost doubles over from another shock of pain that passes through them and then as healing energy into Fearneâas Orym bounces anxiously on his heels like a flea or a warrior looking to strikeâas FCGâs eyes flicker red and his tiny healing-hands become something violentâas her mother says her name through the roaring of a stormâIâm not running anymore. I wonât run.
She imagines, as Laudna pulls back when things have settled and her taloned grip releases Imogen, that her skin has formed new scars in the shape of Laudnaâs hands. She holds the idea in her mind in place of an oath.
âââ
That night, she gives in.
Itâs inevitable, really, no matter which way you look at it she and the storm and the moon have always been meant to collide. To swallow each other whole. Itâs better that she does it on her terms.
Laudna agrees. Itâs good that Laudna agrees. The best, actually, because she was hoping that sheâd say no. She was hoping that sheâd say no because she doesnât actually want to be swallowed whole by the storm or the moon or the concept of a mother. What she wants is for Laudna to say no, and to take her hand and walk her out of the roomâthe houseâthe feywildâthis entire situationâand into whatever is next. Because the truth of it is, no matter how many people go into her dreams with her, she still feels alone.
In the end, she tells herself as red bleeds into the nothing behind her eyelids, the future she has been fighting for has never been her own. The hope she holds like water in her hands was never meant for herself. Her last fight. Her last hope. She stows them away like weapons. She thinks, Theyâll owe me. She thinks, Theyâll free her.
Except, when she gives inâwhen her friends fall away, as they always do, and she is left alone and cradled and warm with the echo of her desperate motherâs voice ringing in her mindâitâs everything. Itâs twenty years of nightmares and ten of minds on minds on minds and months of grief and love and wrath all wrapped up in a bow and labeled âpurposeâ.
She feels like a child. Or what she imagines most children felt like. Weightless. Like if sheâs simply good enough there will be someone who loves her there to wrap her in a hug or a blanket and tell her she did well. Who will carry her tiny half-asleep form to her room and tuck her in and kiss her forehead and say âgood night.â Like she could close her eyes and let the darkness swallow her and know someone left a light on.
Itâs everything. So when she wakes to her friends hovering, groggy faces she is only guilty for a moment at the spike of disappointment that shoots through her at the sight of them. And only guilty for a second longer when her eyes land on Laudna who is still, also, endlessly, everything.
Itâs notâsheâs not really there for the next few secondsâminutesâhours. All of their voices come through as if she is submerged in something thick that pulls every time she tries to break for air. Or maybe a lack of air altogether. There are still stars behind her eyelids every time she blinks.
At some point in their conversation two things finally register in about the same amount of time. One: her mother had called for her. Her mother had been there. Her mother had sounded like she was crying. And two: Laudna is holding her hand.
Laudna has been holding her hand, maybe. For a few moments and a few years. It's this, her tether, that finally brings her back toâwellâExandria.
The others areâasleep? No, theyâveâthat is, she and Laudnaâhave moved. To their room. They had a room? Have they spent a night here already? If time is a soup then she has made quite the mess.
Regardless, Laudna is holding her hand. Itâs everything.
Then there is shifting, slow and slight.
âImogen.â She hears her whisper, voice dropping to that low husk that her choked, only lightly decayed vocal cords must reach to achieve a tone so soft. She doesnât ever mention it, but Imogen knows how sometimes kindness exists like a war in Laudnaâs body. In the way her throat rebels against the scratchy dip of her voice, in the way her bones ache when embraced. It hurts her to be so soft. For Imogen, she does it anyway. âImogen. Would you like to lie down?â
She doesnât respondâshe doesnât think she respondsâjust squeezes Laudnaâs cool hand in her warm one and laces their fingers together in lukewarm knots.
She feels Laudnaâs hands take and cradle her closeâholds there, chests rising and falling against each other like lapping waves for an amount of time Imogen doesn't bother to countâand then she twists and shifts and lays her down like a sleepy child on their shared pillows. She tucks her in. She stands.
âIâll be back.â Laudna husks somewhere above her. âRest, darling. I wonât be but a few minutes. Iâm sure Nana has a pitcher of water somewhere around here that I wonât have toâI donât knowâmake a deal for, or something.â
She thinks she feels the tiniest beginnings of a grin pinning her lips up as Laudna's steps slow near the door, hesitateâbegin to closeâand then open the door long enough to peek in and say: âPâtĂŠ is with you, okay, Iâll be right back. Iâll try not to bargain what remains of my soul for water, butâyou knowâas they sayâwhat must be done and allâokay, byeâ punctuated by the croaking sound of their door pinching shut.
Definitely a grin, then. âPâtĂŠ,â she says, dream-drunk, âYour mom is the best.â
She feels PâtĂŠ land on her chest with a soft, somewhat wet flop. His tiny feet pitter like heâs excited or dancing. He says, âI know. Sheâs the whole package.â And then, after letting loose a rattling sound that could be considered a yawn, he asks, âCan I get cozy, then? While we wait for mum?â
Imogen, eyes still blissfully closed, let's loose a breathless laugh. Her hand blindly makes its way to the ball of fur and viscera and bone and love on her chest and scritches, ââCourse, PâtĂŠ. Weâll wait together.â
He hums. She feels him turn in one, two, three circles on her chest before finally curling up and settling in on her skin. He makes another rattling noise that could be a yawn or maybe a purr and says, âYouâre warm.â
She is undeniably smiling when she responds, âSo are you, buddy.â
âââ
When Laudna comes back minutes or hours later, PâtÊ is fast asleep on her chest.
His little body rattles with what she assumes are snores, softly vibrating against her collar. She holds a finger to her lips as Laudna goes to shut the door behind her. Laudna makes a face like sheâs about to burst into tears.
She doesnât. She instead turns toâsoftlyâshut and lock the door, and then turns soundlessly again in her direction. She takes a breath. She smiles, âIâm not going to lie, I was kind of hoping youâd be asleep when I got back.â
She hums, low in her chest. âWhy?â
Laudna looks at her in that somewhat blank way she does when she thinks the answer to something is quite obvious. She says, âBecause you need the rest.â
She hums again. Laudna treks the distance between them and sits softly beside her, her sharp hip just barely pressing against the bend of her waist. Her bony hand catches Imogenâs cheekâor, maybe, Imogenâs cheek willingly falls into her handâregardless, suddenly she finds herself held. A thumb brushes under her eye with the barely there gentleness one uses when full with fear for something breaking in their grasp.
She leans forward and over her, dark hair falling around them like a curtain of ink, blanketing them in shadow, encompassing her entire vision. She asks, breath falling upon her lips like a torrent or a phantom kiss, âAre you alright, darling?â
Imogen lifts up the barely there distance to press their lips together, sighing into her mouth. âCareful with PâtĂŠ,â she whispers when she falls back, a hand splaying on Laudnaâs chest to keep her from fully settling in atop her, âhe needs the rest, too.â
Laudna opens her eyes as if from a good dreamâand then rolls them. She lifts a hand to wave in the air as if swatting at something. âHeâs dead.â She says, like itâs an obvious thingâwhich, it is. But. âBesides, if he dies from exhaustion or something else ridiculous then Iâll just bring him back.â
Imogen frowns. âI donât think heâs dead. Not, like, dead-dead, anyway. âSides, heâs comfy. Iâd feel bad if we woke him.â
Laudna hums, then. âYes, he is. Comfy. And also dead.â
Her turn to roll her eyes. âWhereâs his house?â
Laudna sighs like the world is endingâwhich, wellâand leans down for one more soft kiss and then back and up and off of her entirely. Imogen triesâvaliantly, she might addânot to openly wince at the loss.
She watches Laudna brace her nonexistent weight against the bed in a way that would cause the mattress to dip if it were anyone else, and instead just presses with the barely there imprint of her palms into the silk. She reaches for Imogenâs chest, cups PâtĂŠâs tiny form in her hands; Imogen brings her hands together overtop them both. When Laudna looks at her, her eyes are full of shooting stars.
âCan I?â she asks, âPlease?â
Laudna stares at her for a few slow heartbeats more, a little like she is stunned. Eventually, she leans down over their joined hands and kisses her fingers. Again. Moves her thumb to run over her knuckles like she is wiping away a stain. âOf course.â
Her body still feels a little gone, a little floaty, as she brings her hands to catch PâtĂŠâs tiny body in their joint grasp, lifts herself up against the headboard, and then swings her legs over the side of the mattress. She sways to her feet slowly, slightly wobbly, eyes never leaving from the curled-up ball of fur in her hands and on her chest. Laudnaâs hands have moved and are pressing into her biceps from somewhere behind her, steadying.
She lifts her head long enough to find where Laudna had placed PâtÊ's little home across the room, its golden-brown wood resting silently atop the possibly skin-covered drawer by the archway that opens into a vine-wrapped, flower-lined balcony.
She half-shambles, half-stumbles her way over with Laudna on her bleary-eyed heels. It feels infinitely importantâitâs always felt important, butâthat she is gentle. That Laudna sees her be gentle. It is more important than she has words to describe that Laudna could leave or fall asleep or be elsewhere and feel and know that PâtĂŠ would be put softly, lovingly to bed. That he would be tucked in. That Imogen would leave a little light on for him if he asked. She looks down at Laudnaâs most special little gift and drops a tiny, feather-light kiss against his skeletal head. âGânight, buddy.â
He mumbles out a gargled sounding, âGânight, âmogen.â
She smiles, pulls apart the tiny curtains that act as a privacy sheet to his home, tucks him in as well as she can, runs one last soft finger down the length of his beak and just like thatâshe canât help itâshe starts to think of her mother.
She wonders how gently Liliana held her, when she was so small and helpless and vulnerable. She wonders if Liliana ever sang to her, ever held her little hands and kissed her stubby fingers. That memoryâthe one that Otohan conjured or summoned or triggeredâher mother had caught her as her toddler legs had stumbled; she had smiled and wiped her tear-stained cheeks and lifted her into her arms and held.
The phantom memory of a mother and the phantom memory of Ruidus begin to overlapâhow long had it been, before Laudna, that she was shown gentleness? Before Laudna, two decades into her life, was it her mother? Before her mother, before she was ever given a name, was it the moon?
How was she meant toâhow was it fair to expect her toâis it so evil of her, to wish? She wonâtâshe wonâtâbecause she knows that itâs wrong no matter how desperately it feels right. But theâthe venom she catches pooling in the depths of Orymâs gaze, sometimes, when he talks about the moon and the vanguard and sheâshe gets itâof course she gets it, of course she understandsâbut itâs not like sheâs ever genuinely entertained the thought of joining the vanguardâof joining Otohanâbut the moon, Ruidus, Predathosâshe wonâtâthe silence, the comfortâher body, radiant even among the starsârunning, tripping into her motherâs armsâshe wonâtâ
âImogen?â
A chilled hand on her shoulder, gentle, gentle, gentle.
Breath enters her empty lungs in a shock-sharp inhale. Light enters the world againânatural, silver-white moonlight like a stripe of paint from the open balcony; warm, flickering orange from the candle by the bedâand the temperature goes from freezing to scalding to cool as she collapses back into her body like debris flung from orbit. Laudnaâs hand on her skin; she crash-lands back home.
On impact, she whispers, âLaudna.â
A moment of hesitance and then a soft, cool pair of lips against the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands circle to wrap around Imogenâs waist. She asks, again, voice feather-fall soft, âAre you alright?â
A moment of hesitance and then her traitorous mouth, her traitorous heart: âI donât know anymore.â
Laudna presses another, more lingering kiss to the space below her ear, then moves to run her nose along the curve of her jaw. She whispers there, in a way that she feels the words press against her skin, âThatâs okay.â
Imogen finds her hands against her belly and twines them together as tightly as she canâtether, anchor, home. Her breath trembles.
They donât say anything, holding each other in the space and the silence. Laudna presses gentle, gentle kisses to anywhere on Imogen that she can reachâneck, shoulder, ear, jawâuntil Imogen turns to meet her there, barely capturing Laudnaâs bottom lip between hers and then moving in again, more insistent. She feels Laudnaâs lips pull into a smile against hers. Imogen notes that sheâs becoming familiar with the feeling. The thought pulls her own smile forth.
But they havenât kissed like this before, at this angle, in this room. There are so many other perfect kisses they have yet to discover.
It doesnât make sense that she only kissed her a little over a week ago. She should have kissed her a month ago, the moment she came back on the floor in Whitestone, the moment they arrived in Jrusar, two years ago in Gelvaan. She should have kissed her a hundred more times than she did the day that she first gathered the courage to kiss her in the first place and then kissed her some more. She shouldâve bought lipstick so she could leave a stain.
Laudna pulls back first, half-laughing and half-sighing at Imogenâs attempt to give chase. She leans back in to press a quick kiss to her noseânew, perfectâand then dips down, seals their foreheads together, looks up at her. She asks, âWould you like to talk about it?â
No, not really. âI think Iâd need another week to even begin to process whatâs happened to us in the last three days, to be honest.â
Laudna nods. âYes, understandable. Itâs been a lot.â She pauses, as if to see if Imogen will respond, and then says, âStill, Iâd like to listen.â
Sheâs perfect. Thatâs it, really.
Imogen finds her hand and brings it up to her lips, kissing each finger once and then each knuckle. She whispers, âIâm not sure I know how to.â
Laudna kisses her cheek. âThatâs okay, too.â
When she pulls back she also pulls forward, taking Imogenâs hand in her own and guiding her. She twines their fingers together, and then they are on the balcony.
Catha shines more brightly here than she is used to in the Material Plane. There is no bloody red or pink shine of Ruidus to speak of after their work at the key. It is navy-dark, struck through with silver cuts from Sehanineâs light. There are moving, shifting vines wrapped around the stone-skinwork railing of their little alcove, purple and yellow and orange and bright, vibrant green dancing and swirling and alive around them.
Laudna gasps, her lips forming a perfect, excited âOâ when she notices the little movements. âHello, there,â she says to the vine, âSorry to disturb you. Would it be impolite to talk to my girlfriend out here, for a minute?â and then, her hands coming up like claws and her voice deepening to the tone she uses for her most important and dramatic of questions, âIs this, like, your domain?â
The vines shake back and forth as if to say knock yourself out or maybe well I canât stop you.
Laudna grins, âOh, perfect. Excellent. You're much less ferocious than your feywild-forest-flower friends.â Her brows furrow, a single finger coming up to tap nervously against her lips. âHm. I hope that wasnât insulting.â
Before Imogen can stop her she reaches forward and lightly taps the vine with two fingers, sharp teeth exposed in a smile, âYouâre perfectly ferocious as well.â
The vines shutter as if to say fuck off and then pull back and vanish, leaving clean stonework behind.
Laudna pouts. Imogen takes and tangles their hands together. âMaybe next time.â
She sighs, all dramatics, âIâm beginning to believe plants hate me as much as people do.â
Imogen knocks their shoulders together. âPeople donât hate you.â
âObjectively untrue. Regardless,â she says, waving Imogenâs immediate attempt at a counter aside, âAre you ready? For tomorrow.â
For the key? For Ruidus? For her mother?
She shrugs, âAs Iâll ever be. You?â
âOh, I think so.â She leans her bony hip against the balcony wall. âItâs been a long road. To get here. I never doubted you would.â
Imogen scoffs. She leans against the wall, too. âA long road is certainly one way to describe it. A shitty road, would be another.â
Laudna tilts her head at her, raven-like. A rope of black hair falls into her face. Imogen clenches her fingers around her arms in an effort not to reach across the space and brush it behind her ear. She says, with the upward tilting, insecure cadence of a question, âIt hasnât all been shitty, though?â
Imogen heaves a heavy breath. âNo,â she says, fingers still digging into her own skin, âNo. Not all of it.â
Laudna hums. There is still hair in front of her eyes. âBut quite a bit of it.â
âQuite a bit, yeah.â
Quiet. Some likely incredibly fucked-up feywild bird flutters its incredibly fucked-up feywild wings and takes off into the moonlit night. Imogen turns and balances her weight on her elbows, leaning over the wall. The vines from earlier are just over the edge, as if eavesdropping. She says, âBut not all of it, Laudna.â
âI know,â Laudna whispers, âI agree.â
âAbout not all of it sucking absolute ass or about it sucking absolute ass in general?â
âYes.â
âAwesome.â Imogen chuckles, âIâm glad we agree that everything sucks.â
âBut not everything-everything.â
âBut not everything-everything.â
âThis is getting pretty circular,â Laudna steps closer, âHow do we make it suck less?â
Kiss me, Imogen thinks. âI have no idea.â Imogen says.
âBecause, you know,â Laudna continues as if Imogen hadnât spoken at all, âI think youâreâŚso capable. Truly. And I really havenât ever doubted that youâd make it hereââ
ââto the moon?ââ
ââfrom the moment it became apparent it was possible, yesâbut, really, even thenâanyway. I justâŚI want to protect you. On the moon, but also here,â She lifts one dainty hand and presses her finger against Imogenâs forehead, âI know the dream was a lot.â
Imogen grasps Laudnaâs wrist where it is in front of her face, leans forward to press a kiss against the veins there and then again at the tip of that same finger. âIt was.â
Laudna shifts closer, still, leaning over her just slightly. âDo you feel any different?â
Imogen finally, finally allows herself the gift of brushing those stray hairs back, lets her fingers linger against Laudnaâs gaunt cheek. âYes and no.â she admits, eyes on the silk-soft hair tangled in her fingers to the side of Laudnaâs face, âIâm not sure how to explain it.â
âThatâs alright. Maybe I can help you find the words. You justâwell, IâŚdonât want to, you know, but. Youâve just seemed a littleââ
âOut of sorts.â
She sees Laudnaâs breath stutter and then release. âYes, IâŚI didnât want to pressure you, or anything. Itâs been a lot, so much. And you donât have toâI trust you. I do. But if youâŚif you need or want help, then I would like to offer it. Is all.â
Imogen swallows. âI meant it, earlier,â bursts from her chest, her heart, âWhen IâThat I love you. That Iâmâin love with you. In case that wasnât, um, clear.â
Laudna, for her part, looks genuinely surprised. Which is itself surprising. Not in the least because she had said she loved her, too; but, also that Imogen realizes that she very simply is not super good at hiding it.
Quietly, softly, Laudnaâs lips part. Her eyes go a bit glassy. She shifts forward slightly, leaning into her palm still on her cheek. She saysâwhispers, reallyâ âI know.â
Imogen inhales. Exhales. âYouâwell, that's good. Thatâs great.â
Laudna smiles against her skin. âYouâre warm.â she whispers. She presses a kiss there, to the crease of her palm. âI love you, too.â
Imogen inhales. Exhales. âWell. Thatâs good. Thatâs great.â
âMhm.â
âI donâtââ she licks her dry lips, âI donât know what to do now.â
Laudna hums. âYes you do.â
âRight.â she says, âOkay.â and then sheâs kissing her again.
âIâm going to ask youââ a pause, another kiss, âIâm going to ask you about the dream again, whenââ
Imogen pulls back. Laudnaâs lips are kiss-swollen and shiny. It makes her want to break something. She asks, âWhen?â
Laudna sighs. Her eyes open to find her slowly, and then stop half-way, hanging over her irisâ heavily. Her eyes are dark. Hungry. She says, âWhen Iâm done.â
Imogenâs eyes fall back to her lips. âRight.â She whispers, âOkayââ and then the rest of her sentence and the rest of her breath and the rest of her thoughts are stolen from her.
âââ
âNow, then.â Laudna starts. She wipes the back of her hand across her uptilt lips. âWhatâs different? Do you have gills? Webbed fingers? Though, I supposed Iâd have noticed that much by nowââ
âLaudnaââ she heaves a laugh, lungs still desperate, voice a little hoarse, âGod, let me catch my breath first.â
Laudnaâs tongue runs lightly between her lips. She is above her, still, grey-ish arms bracketing either side of her. There is hair in her face again, sweat-stuck to her skin. Imogen is too mesmerized by the way that it splits her into like running ink and catches the nearby moonglow in a contrasting showcase of light to bother to want to brush it away. Chiaroscuro personified.
She tilts her head, bird-like and uncanny. Her eyes, shooting stars. It makes Imogen want to pull her back in. âShit, Laudna,â she whisper-giggles, âYouâre so fuckinâ beautiful.â
Laudna stutters and then grins, all too-sharp teeth. She says, teasingly, âItâs nice to not be the breathless one for a change.â
Imogenâs laugh leaves her like a strike to the chest, âOh, thatâs a good one.â
âI thought so.â
Laudna leans down, kisses her again. Imogen sighs into her.
Thisâthe intimacy of itâis still so new and beautiful and exciting andâwellâfrankly, they've both discovered that theyâre ravenous. For each other and for love and for touch. That first nightâat Zhudannaâs, her body still thrumming hours later with the electric echo of their first kissâImogen had taken Laudnaâs hand after they passed the threshold of their little makeshift and borrowed home and led her to their windowless room, their small bed. She had asked: Can I kiss you again?
It was indescribably wonderful, and took approximately two lung-heaving, feather-light minutes in the aftermath to discover that Laudna was starving. Voraciously hungry. Thirty years of nothing and thenâsuddenlyâthis. Suddenly them. Imogen could hardly stand the handful of weeks apart.
Which is to say, Laudna has a tendency to lose herself in her, a little bit. It has quickly become one of her greatest prides.
Exceptâwell.
Imogen falls back, separating them. âSorry,â she whispers, âWhat wereâwhat were you sayinâ?â
Laudna pouts. âAsking.â She corrects, âWellâmaybe theorizing, but mostly asking. You saidâearlierâit feels different?â
Imogen nods. She reaches up to brush her fingers over Laudnaâs cheek. âYeah.â
âIs itâŚgood different? Or bad different?â
Imogen nods. âYeah.â
Laudna nods, too. Imogen watches something like self-consciousness settle on her shoulders. She isnât sure what to do about it.
Laudna braces to press a kiss to her cheek and then rolls over. When her skin hits the light it makes her look made of marble. Like a statue. A work of art.
She bends across the space and tugs the blanket up and around them both, reaching around Imogen to make sure she is covered completely. Imogen uses the opportunity to press her lips to the skin of her bicep in passing thanks.
She settles back against the sheets. âI love you.â She says. Somehow, it sounds like a plea. âAnd Iâll support whatever it is you decide you want to do.â
Imogen turns on her side to mirror her. âEven ifâif itâs giving in completely?â
Laudna's eyes are dark. Hungry. âWhatever you decide, Imogen.â
Imogen swallows. She feels like sheâs choking. Something is rising in her, clawing at her chest and stomach and ripping its way into the world. Laudnaâs eyes are so dark. There is a hound in her chest. Imogen swears she hears the echo of its howl, somehow, in her own chest. In the breaths between heartbeats, something is growling.
The howl, her eyes; it rends her completely. With blood in her teeth, she says, âMy mom was there.â
It leaves her like a strike of lightning, seeking the quickest way to earth, splitting and bursting apart her ribcage as it rips from her lungs. Or like a hound, pent-up and caged, let loose to hunt and sprinting, snarling to the nearest indicator of meat. Or like sickness, like bile, burning.
Thatâs the bursting, bleeding, burning truth of it: her mother was there. On Ruidus, at the key, in her dreams for as long as she has had them. Guiding her or warning her. In the end, isnât that a form of love? Isnât that what a mother would do? She felt so held, there at the center of Ruidus, in the eye of the storm, in Predathosâ hand or maybe its jaws. Her mother had screamed for her. Her mother had cried for her.
And she canât remember the feeling of her motherâs warmth, but she can remember the sound of her voice: Run. Imogen.
Does Predathos have a voice? Would it mourn her? Would it leave?
âWhat did she do?â Laudnaâlike a thunderclap, or a resonating howl, or a hand on her heaving backâtakes and wraps their bodies together like twisting vines. She presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are still dark. âImogen. What did she say?â
Laudna would. Laudna would mourn her. Laudna would tuck her corpse into bed before leaving her.
âI donâtâshe justâcalled for me. My name. She said no. Laudna.â Laudnaâs hands on either side of her clenched jaw, Laudnaâs lips centimeters from her own, Laudnaâs hand in hers in the middle of the storm. âShe sounded like she was crying.â
She feels the well in her eyes overflow, cutting down her cheeks. Laudna makes some gasping sound and leans in, pressing her lips to the skin and the salt. âImogen. Imogen, Iâm sorry. Imogen.â She pulls back. The dark in her eyes is gone. âDarling, what can I do?â
Imogen shakes her head. Theyâre close enough that each passing arc causes their noses to bump. âI donât know.â She says, voice tight. âI donât know. What if I fucked up? What if she left to protect me and I wasted it? I donât know anymore, Laudna.â
Laudna kisses her, lightly, a barely there press of their lips and then gone. Like she isnât sure how else to respond. âWhat happened? When you gave in? What did it feel like?â
Imogen trembles. âIâyou allâleft. Were pulled away. It brought me in and thenâmy mamaâbut itââ here, she sobs, âit was warm.â
Laudnaâs body stiffens around her, arms locking like rigor mortis around her waist. She doesnât exhale for a long, long time. When she does, it passes over her lips like a torrent.
âMy mother taught me to sew.â she starts. âDid I ever tell you that? We didnât often have enough money to go get new clothes so we made our own. Anyway, the first time it was because I ripped a hole in one of my shirts out in the woodsâI was digging for wormsâand when I came back I was all in a huff, expecting to be in so much trouble and felt so terrible for ruining clothes I knew she made for me.â
She pauses to press a kiss to Imogenâs hairline, âShe took the ruined thing out of my hands and taught me how to fix it.â
She inhales. Thereâs the tiniest stutter in her chest that makes Imogen want to level another city block. âI used to think about her quite often. Everytime I found myself trying to sleep on the floor of some cold, abandoned cabin, all alone, I remember wishing she were there to teach me how to fix it.â
Their eyes find each other again, snapping together like magnets or puzzle pieces. Laudnaâs eyes are full of shooting stars again. âI justâIâm just sorry, Imogen. Iâm sorry I donât know how to fix this. Iâm sorry she doesnât.â
No longer the snapping wolf, no longer the lightning strike or the thunderclap or the bile or the hand; Imogen breaks.
âGod, Laudna. It feels likeâlike I'm mourning her.â She sobs. The words loose from her throat like an arrow held taut for too long, aimless. âBut, Laudna, she isn'tâshe was never gone."
It is an ugly, sharp, irrational thing, her grief; she feels it drive like icicles into Laudnaâs already chilled skin and dig rot-guilt up from under the warmth of her own when the weight of it tugs her over and into Laudna further. She wishes, fleetingly, that she could wear her grief as prettily as she thinks Laudna does. Laudna slips into hers like an old coat or an old blanketâscratchy, filled with holes, utterly familiar in a way that settles onto her shoulders in some poor facsimile of comfort.
Imogenâs is always, always this: an implosion. An excavation of the self. Her body nothing more than a dig-site of scars with histories older than she is.
âSheâs my mama, Laudna.â It is a pathetic plea, it drops with the weight of a stone into water from her lips, âShe was always with me. I never knew her. I love her and I loved her. She was dead. I have to kill her. I have mourned so why am I still mourning?â
The last word rips out of her in two tones, caught in the hiccup-choke of a sob into Laudnaâs shoulder.
"Oh, darling." Laudna whispers, her lips against Imogenâs temple petal-soft in a way that makes the guilt dig deeper, sugar and salt. For a moment she only holds her. Presses kisses to the side of her head. And then Imogen feels air fill her chest, hears her lungs expand with the accompanying sound of bones like a creaking ship at sea or a growling hound. She says, with all the wisdom of someone who has lived and died and lived again, "Mourning is justâŚlove in a transitive state.â
She shifts, catching the wet guilt dripping from Imogenâs face and forming lakes of grief at her collar, rivers of it down her chest. It makes Imogenâs breath catch, watches the moonlight catch in the momentary proof of her on Laudna. She continues, more softly, âIt isâŚan adjustment to distance. Not goneâjust far."
At this, Imogen glances away from the stain of her to meet Laudnaâs eyes. She hesitates, breath a pathetic stutter in her lungs. She asks, âAre we still talking about my mother?â
Laudna watches her. And watches her. And then, voice like a bleeding wound or creaking branches or whining rope: âDeath could not take me from you.â
âDonâtââ she begs, âDo notâLaudnaââ
âIt canât, Imogen. She canât.â
Imogen sobs, reaches up desperately to cradle Laudnaâs face in her hands. âI donât want you to be another voice in my storm, Laudna. I canât. I wonât.â
Laudna's gentle, cool hands gather her own callous, warm ones together at their collar. She asks, "Can I tell you something you don't want to hear?"
A laugh breaks out of Imogenâs lungs, desperate and sad. âYou already are.â
Her grip on Laudna's hands is not gentle, it is clinging. Clawing. She imagines that when Laudna pulls away, her wrists will bear the bruise of her.
She says, in that same creaking branches voice, "You would have been fine without me."
She pulls awayâtries toâhears her voice from outside her body saying, "NoâNo, Iâ" but then Laudna's fingers are entangled in hers like roots and Imogen isâshe'sâclinging, too.
"Don't say that." She cries. There is thunder in her voice. A precursor and warning. "I love you. Donât say that.â
Laudnaâs hands release hers to wrap around and claw at the skin of her hip, dragging them close again. Her eyes are swimming. âYouâre so strong, so capable, and you are going to live. Your storm wonât take you. You will outgrow it.â
âYou are, too.â Imogen demands. Because it is a demand, of herself and of the world. âYouâre going to live, too.â
Laudna says nothing. Imogen continues, âI wonât let her have you, Laudna. If I can outgrow my storm, you can outgrow her.â
Laudnaâs face is choked up in grief, now, in a way that Imogen has never really seen. âI just meanââ she starts, chokes, starts again, âI just meanâmy mother taught me to sew. And I did. And I think maybe your mother taught you to run. And you did. And I donât think itâsâŚitâs understandable, that you wish she had taught you how to sew instead.â
Something in her, some roaring thingâthe storm, maybeâcracks her skin at the words. She thinks if she were to look at her hands right now there would be new scars.
Laudna takes her ruined hands into her own; she tries to fix them. âBut I can teach you how to sew, Imogen. I canâand then when I'mâgone. You can still sew. Or cook orâor paint orâwhatever it is, Imogen. Imogen.â
Imogen rushes in; she kisses her. What else is there to say? What do you say when I love you isnât big enough anymore? How do you say I donât want you to teach me how to sew, I want you to teach me how to hunt?
Maybe there arenât enough words to encompass them. Maybe theyâve created their own expanse of love and devotion here, between them. Maybe theyâve spent two years carving a space for the other in the ether of the world.
Everything theyâve found, all of the information they've picked up on the Gods and what makes or breaks or conjures them in these past monthsâfaith. Both the call and the creator, the word around which divinity molds itself. And her faith, her divine call into the darkâher unanswered pleas on her knees in Gelvaan, on her knees at the altar of the Dawnfather Temple in Whitestoneâif they can pick and choose whose faith they deem truthful, then what does it mean to be truly faithful?
The confidence in the callous hands of a blacksmith as he brings the hammer down, striking metal into shape. The gentle hands of a gardener digging into the soil, preparing it for life, removing that which would otherwise ruin and rot. The small hands of a child held in the soft, guiding hands of their mother. Are these not examples of divine faith?
Would the Dawnfather's hands hold her face so gently? Would the Wildmother's lips press so softly to her brow? Would the Changebringer's fingers dig just so into the skin of her shoulders, sweaty and heaving in the aftermath of her storm?
What could the gods offer her that Laudna hasn't? What would they ask in return for what Laudna freely gives? What faith of hers have they earned?
If faith is the ultimate test of love and passion and trustâthan whose altar but Laudna's would she kneel to?
If godhood, then, is as simple as a state of faith and belief then maybe she alone can love her to the point of divinity. Immortality. Imogen could make a God of her. Maybe, she thinks with Laudnaâs bottom lip caught between her teeth, maybe one more kiss will do the trick. Maybe one more. One more.
Eventually a sobâImogenâs, of courseâbreaks them apart. Her head falls into Laudnaâs neck. Laudnaâs arms cross behind her back and press her close. She runs her taloned fingers over the bare skin at Imogenâs shoulder blades, the base of her neck, down every popping vertebrae. She is breathing at the normal human rateâfor her it is heaving. She kisses Imogenâs temple.
âNo one can take away the love for the mother you wanted. Not even the mother you have." She says into her hair, and then pulls away and downâkisses her. Keeps kissing her. When she separates to speak it is by centimeters, âAnd no one can take me away from you. Not Delilah. Not Otohan. Not Predathos or The Matron.â
And then, into her trembling mouth, âIf we are apart, then I am within.â
Imogen lets out a wreckedâchokingâdying sound, âYeahâYes. Laudna, Iââ desperate and clumsy and broken, she brings her shaking hand up to Laudnaâs face and presses her finger to Laudnaâs forehead, âHere. As long as youâre here.â
Laudna nods, brings her own talons up to Imogenâs face in a mirror-gesture, âHere. As long as youâre here.â And what is left for Imogen to do besides to rush up and in and in and in. Again and again and again.
Here, in Jrusar, in their room at Zhudannaâs, in Zephrah, in the Feywild, in Bassuras, on the moon, in the storm. In the evening, in the morning, in the middle of the day, in the depths of the night. Crying, laughing, bloody, triumphant. Again and again and again and again.
Better halves, Imogen thinksâinto Laudnaâs head and then, endlessly, into her own, Better wholes. I love you. I love you.
âI love you.â Laudna gasps aloud, ripping away and then rushing back in, âImogen. Imogen. As long as youâre here. I love you.â
Imogen nods, gasps, and then neither of them say much at all.
âââ
In the end, Imogen doesnât say: I lied. When I promised to move on. I lied to you. Nor does she say: Iâm sorry. Iâm not disgusted by you. I could never be. I love you so deeply that every time I look at you I am remade. She doesnât say: I sundered her once. Iâll sunder her again. If youâll let me, Iâd plant a new sun tree in your mind. One that makes you think of picnics and not nooses. One that makes you think of the view and not the fall.
She does not say: I donât think I can do it. I donât think I can kill her. Will you do it? Can we trade?
She tucks these confessions away in the divots of her mind right alongside her circlet. She hopes the weight of them, the promise of them, will help to keep her runaway feet firmly rooted.
âââ
(After, Laudna falls asleep before her, eyes wide open.
Imogen lays next to her, one hand softly running up and down Laudnaâs exposed navel, the other curled under her own head as she allows herself to trace the profile of her face.
It is late enoughâor, early enough, maybeâthat Cathaâs light cannot breach the shared darkness of their space. Or maybe it does, and is swallowed entirely by the pitch of Laudnaâs eyes.
Laudnaâs eyesâthe empty, dark swirl of themâImogen remembers her gaze full with starsâcaptures her attention. The shadows in the room paint Laudna an even deeper dark, cutting her features into shapes that catch the barely there impression of light that Imogenâs weak, mortal eyes require to capture form.
With no light, with nothing to reflect in her sky-locked, sleep-awake stare; Laudna appears hungry. Like even in sleep, she is hunting. In the dark, she takes the form of a predator.
Watching her, Imogen thinks of Ruidus and of the storm there and of the one in her mind and of the one that takes the shape of her motherâreaching and watching and waiting for her, the entirety of her lifeâlike an animal, like something waiting in the grass for her to make a mistake or lose her footingâwaiting on the opportunity to close in on herâto consume her or to change herâ
She reaches across the space.
Gently, mournfully, she closes Laudnaâs eyes.)
#critical role#imogen temult#laudna#imodna#liliana tumult#writing#I donât think I love this anymore BUT. at least it is Finished and I can Move On. To Other Equally Distressing WIPs#i have a full blown liliana character study locked in the chamber of my brain. she is in there.#and delilah is right next to her. in a away i am just like the gay girls#also sos. this is the first time iâve posted fic anywhere but especially on here in YEARS and why the FUCK#did they take away being able to simply add a line break. or am i dumb. i couldnât get the HTML to work either orz#Also post-posting update. I am now recognizing a collection of formatting errors specifically on this version that I am like. h about.#But Whatever. The Show Must Go On#crit role fic
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[ WIP ] another tenken doot doot
#rambles#jjk#kenjaku#tengen#tenken#wip#guys be obsessed with tenken I am Guys#ill finish my arts one day but i gotta focus on other things first
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patrochilles / fairy tale AU / complete (40k words)
There is a curse. A destiny, as his mother loves to remind him. A war. An unknown future, somewhere out there in the fighting and killing. But here, there is only the sun and the grass and Achillesâs swift feet. Here, there is Patroclus sitting in the shade. Here, Achilles pulls him closer and puts his arms around him, staining their clothes with charcoal dust from sketched out dreams. Patroclus sinks into him heavily. The sound of their breathing is the only thing they can hear, as though the clearingâtheir clearingâ is a shield hiding them from the rest of the world. âTake me with you,â Patroclus tells him at the same time that Achilles says, âPlease come with me.â
In the tiny kingdom of Phthia, a golden prince is cursed with invulnerability except for a vulnerable heel. An exile apprenticed to a shoemaker is commissioned by the palace to create a shoe the prince can fight in.
A fairy tale about a curse, a magical shoe, a war, a doomed hero, an exile, destiny, and love despite everything.
#Iâm crying itâs done#my little experiment#i wrote the first 3 chapters and posted with an outline in mind#i have NEVER done that before#usually i prewrite the entire thing and then by the time im posting Iâve already moved on and find it hard to reconnect to the writing when#people are commenting on it and stuff#and i was worried I would write this one and lose momentum/motivation/lose the plot#but I didnât#I wrote it and had fun writing while people were reading and I felt connected to the writing the whole time#and it felt good!! good enough that I did it with my other wip novel which Iâm also finishing this weekend#!!!!!!#I did a scary thing and it didnât fail lol#Iâm gona ride this high for the rest of the week#patrochilles#achilles#patroclus#my fics#my writing#I even made a cute cover for it hehe
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what is a battle but a dance of two warriors?
#ninja showdown#my immortal soul#first ninja x chase young#first ninja#rc9gn first ninja#chase young#rc9gn#xiaolin showdown#me: i cant draw people fighting ;( also me: THEN IM GONNA DRAW DEM IN DANCING POSES LOL#its my immortal soul weekend my dudes aka i have so many freaking wips of these two lol i gotta finish some of them ;(#also im almost 10k deep in the fic writing....i wish i could write faster....hhnnn#not to mention all the other projects im deep in *shifty eyes* literally juggling 5 atm lol
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So, this isn't so much an "Incorrect Quotes"...
So much as an "I have a vision, but I'm not an artist so I have to settle for writing it out and hope someone understands what I'm picturing."
For starters, ya'll know about the artist trend of putting your OC's or favorite characters in a specific dress...
ya know... this oneâŹ
Yeah, just...ALL of Division Three. And I mean all + Narumi. Here how it sounds in my head. (Its more of a comic? It's just mostly dialogue than anything and they're just standing in a line talking to each other.) {And keep in mind....THEY ARE ALL WEARING THE DRESS AS THEY SAY THIS. ITS 90% OF THE JOKE}
Mina: When I said I was nervous about my first promotional modeling gig for Vogue, That didn't mean it was an open invitation to come out here and.... "Support me".
Kafka: Come on. This can't be any more embarrassing than that time you caught me in the sexy lingerie I was wearing for my high school prank.
Hoshina: *In air, eyes glowing woke spartan style, mid assassin strike aimed at Kafka with a training sword, ALSO IN THE DRESS* pics or it didn't happen-
Reno: Look. We're here, we showed up in the dress, can we leave now? I'm getting cold in places I don't want to be cold.
Iharu: Aww, come on! You look dashing! Few more pics! *Somehow managed to convince the photographer to take the shot of them*
Haruichi: The fact that you're filling this out better than me is disturbing.
Aoi:*Trying not to let his blush show* Are the lights getting to you because you're talking bullshit.
Minase: Oh my God! KIKORU!!!! You look amazing!!!
Kikoru:*embarrassed* Minassseee.... I-I'm with Reno. Can we change into our work jumpers now?
Hakua: Hey, can I take this one home? Makin' me feel hella confident right now. *Starts a gun show in front of a mirror.*
Narumi: *In front of the same mirror Hakua is in, serving cunt and taking selfies* Honestly, ya'll should just put me on the cover instead of Mina cuz' I'm pulling this off way better than her in the moment.
I also like to imagine that instead of Mina on the cover... It's Kafka in Kaiju form in the dress. The glowing abs would absolutely be visible as well....
#We stan Muscle Mommy Hakua in this house hold.#Had a headcanon that she kinda has a body image problem over how muscly she is -#- so she takes any opportunity to take items that make her confidant in her body image (sh*t tons of praise from Kafka help as well)#Just because I don't like GenHoshi's existence doesn't mean I don't like Gen.#He's not my favorite but you can't tell me i'm wrong when I say he could slay a runway.#Slight Kikoru x Minase shipper? Maybe?#I will find a way to shove KafHoshi into everything I post.#*Fainting dramatically into a leather wing back chair*#âOh! If only there were a creater's blocked artist that was also into Kn8 that was looking for sh*tty inspiration material.â#*Blinks one eye open in disappointment at the lack of people that would give a sh*t*#âWell Don't all of you rush in at once.â#None of my mutuals take this seriously.#I am well aware that most of you are artists and already have a ton of WIP's that you should probably finish first before you start others#Althought........#Hotrubbertar... you Okay buddy?#You haven't posted anything in a while....#AGAIN THIS IS A JOKE#kaiju no 8#art inspiration#shit post#<- maybe?#kafka hibino#mina ashiro#soshiro hoshina#reno ichikawa#iharu furuhashi#haruichi izumo#aoi kaguragi#kikoru shinomiya#Minase
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